The Comfort of Guilt
by PuffPiece
Summary: Dean's doing about as well as can be expected. Sam - not so much. Sixth in the Reality Bites series - follows I Ain't Afraid of No Ghost. Warning: Amputee Dean.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Part Six in the Reality Bites series. Follows I Ain't Afraid of No Ghost.

Dean awakens instantly, arm reaching for the knife under his pillow, taking him a moment or two to remember why it's not there. He lies still, listening for what brought his body out of the blissful land of wholeness. As he waits, he pretends to clutch his knife, residual arm muscles twitching at the task. He curls the toes he no longer has, feels the barest flicker of muscle memory in what remains of his thighs.

And then he hears it again. The soft whimper that he recognizes all too well.

Sam.

He pushes himself up onto his elbows, then flips himself over and works his way into a seated position. He pauses for a few seconds, straining his ears in the stillness, hears his brother let out a strangled "Dean," and works his way to the side of his bed, reaching out and tapping an old-school touch lamp with his left arm before transferring himself into his wheelchair. He's tried to make the transfer in the dark before. It doesn't always go as planned.

He doesn't bother to add any clothing, his boxers are perfectly fine (he has nothing to hide from Sam since his injury), just wheels himself across the hall and into Sam's room.

As he gets closer, he hears Sam's whimper again, along with the "Nononono" that's been the all too familiar accompaniment to his brother's tossing and turning for the past several months. He nudges open Sam's door and wheels himself over to the side of his brother's bed, using the light from the hallway to guide his path, making soft shushing sounds as he goes.

"Hey Sam, it's okay. I'm okay. It's alright," he says, putting the brake on his chair. He edges as close to Sam as he can without falling out of his chair but the way Sam's positioned in his bed, Dean can't quite reach him. So he does something he wouldn't normally do if his brother were awake. He transfers himself onto Sam's bed and sits next to him, using his left arm stump to make small circles on his brother's chest while his right tries to swipe Sam's shaggy bangs from his eyes.

Sam heaves out a deep breath, stilling a little under Dean's reassuring touch, although Dean can still make out Sam's eyes roving rapidly beneath his eyelids and feel the too quick heartbeat jackhammering under his brother's ribs.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean says, continuing to rub his brother's chest. "I'm right here."

Dean suspects he knows exactly where his little brother is right now. He's pretty sure Sam is stuck watching him try to fight off the Black Dog, losing valuable pieces of himself in the process. He knows Sam has way more vivid memories of the attack than he does, doesn't have the benefit of Angel Prozac or post-traumatic amnesia or whatever it is that keeps the worst of the images from Dean's own consciousness.

But Sam won't talk about it with him. Just tells him he's fine. That's it's just a stupid dream.

Dean knows better. Can see the ever-present dark circles under his brother's eyes. Can see the exhaustion etching his face on an almost daily basis. Can hear the whimpers and protestations that come on a way-too frequent nightly basis.

Sam gradually quiets, lets out a deep sigh and rolls over to face Dean. Dean can't help but picture his brother twenty years younger, a similar comforting gesture having been required after the first time Sam watched the movie _It_. Dean's lips quirk as he ponders his brother's continued fear of clowns in the midst of the true horror story that is their lives.

When it's evident that Sam has finally fallen into a restful sleep, Dean considers heading back to his own room. He glances at the LED readout of the clock by his brother's bed, figures there's a good chance that Sam may yet have another vivid dream tonight, and decides instead to stay put. He shimmies his way into a horizontal position, pulls the blanket over himself, too tired to try work the sheets out from under himself without disturbing Sam, and closes his eyes. It doesn't take long before the even breathing of Sam sends Dean into his own dreamless sleep.

()()()()()()()()

"Hey man, be careful with the moneymaker," Dean says, placing an arm on Sam's shaking right hand. "I ain't got much left besides the face."

Sam looks down at where Dean's residual limb is resting on his arm, a lump forming in his throat as he's reminded yet again of what he's done to his older brother.

The boys are currently in the bathroom of their apartment, Dean in his wheelchair, Sam perched on the edge of the tub while Sam works at cleaning up Dean's facial hair. Dean's tried to shave himself a couple of times, mostly in the first couple of months after his injury. It didn't go so well. He'd nearly sliced his face off with the regular razor and the electric shaver just shimmied its way out of his grasp. He'd ended up looking like a moth-eaten vagabond.

So Sam picked up the job title of "Facial hair coordinator" in addition to his numerous other nonpaying gigs, taking a razor to Dean's face every two or three days.

And today, his hand is trembling almost invisibly. But enough for Dean to notice.

"Nightmare again?" Dean asks softly, drawing Sam's gaze back to his brother's all-knowing face. He knows Dean came over last night, found him curled up next to him when he woke up this morning, knows he was having a rather vivid nightmare last night.

And despite the shaking of his hand, he actually feels much better than he usually does when he's had that bad of a dream. He usually wakes up gasping in a cold sweat, unable to get back to sleep again.

Sam hangs his head, takes a deep breath, and nods almost imperceptibly.

"Sam," Dean pleads, trying to catch his brother's eye, "you've got to talk about it."

Sam lets out a half-hearted huff, considers his brother's statement in the same vein as the pot/kettle argument. But even he has to admit that Dean seems to be holding it together rather well. Of course, he doesn't have the memories of that day's events.

 _Several months ago…_

They'd been keeping their eyes on groupings of gruesome deaths and reported maulings over the past couple of months, finally deciding that it was most likely Their Kind of Thing when an eyewitness reported what was basically described as a wild dog on steroids. The local police thought the kid was on drugs. Unfortunately, he wasn't.

The boys went and talked to the spooked teenager, wheedled out of him the description that screamed Black Dog to any hunter worth their salt, and set out for its last known location, a wooded area on the outskirts of a mid-sized town, the likes of which they'd passed through all too often over the years.

They'd hiked into the area well-prepared for a routine take down, their duffel bags filled with silver knives, guns with bullets of varied persuasions, Holy Water, bonfire accessories, and a host of various and sundries they always kept on hand.

They'd searched the area together for a couple of hours, finally splitting up at Dean's insistence after he'd argued successfully that they'd both taken down less on their own. Plus, they'd be able to cover twice as much ground and get the hell out of there that much faster.

But instead of the boys finding the Black Dog, it found Sam.

As much as parts of that day are a blur, there are other parts that Sam will never be able to forget. The crackle of branches snapping under the feet signaling the presence of a rather large being. The soft snorts of excitement low in the throat of something off to his left. The feeling of the beast's warm moist breath on the back of his neck when it finally found him.

Turns out the Dog was tracking him better than he was tracking it.

The beast had played with him a little, batted him around, knocking him into a tree and knocking him out. In truth, the scratches he'd told Dean required only Holy Water and antibiotic cream actually required stitches of his own; the ER staff had practically had to sedate him in order to clean him up, he'd been so focused on his brother.

When he'd come to after getting thrown into the tree, the first image he recalled was seeing Dean hurtling himself at the Dog, driving the thing off the course it was headed for, which was straight for Sam.

Instead, the dog had turned its attention to Dean. Or more accurately, Dean's legs.

Sam can still see the beast dragging his brother's writhing form across the wooded floor, see Dean's scrabbling arms trying to halt his progress by grabbing at tree roots as they pass him by. Can still hear his brother's tortured screams as the beast clamps down its jaws and shakes his brother like a rag doll.

Dean's form had appeared to go limp, then rigid again as he'd renewed his efforts to fight back, trying to pry his legs out of the beast's mouth. And Sam had watched in horror as the Dog changed its attention from Dean's legs to his arms, continuing to drag him further away from Sam's frozen form.

Sam had finally tried to scramble to his feet, the effort painfully slow due to the wooziness lingering from his meeting with the tree. By the time he'd followed the drag marks, he was met by a gruesome site – blood pumping from where his brother's limbs should be, the actual arms and legs nowhere in sight.

In reality it had only taken a few seconds, but in his nightmares it still feels like years before he's shot the beast, another decade or so before he gets to work trying to save his brother's life, tying tourniquets and applying direct pressure to the major arteries hell-bent on pumping Dean's life-force back into the earth. He doesn't even remember calling to Castiel, just knows that without his intervention Dean would be dead.

The call to 911 (he thinks Castiel might have taken care of that, he doesn't remember making the call and didn't think they had cell reception out there anyway), the ride in the ambulance, the paperwork and endless questions had all flown by in a haze; it's the part of the ordeal he recalls the least.

Unfortunately, he'll never be able to scrub the vivid images of the events leading up to that time from his mind.

 _Now…_

Sam looks at his brother, sees the hellish existence he's relegated him to. The daily struggles he has to endure just to get through his day. And he can't forget his role in the situation. If he'd only been a little quicker. If he'd only insisted they stay together. If he'd only fought the Black Dog more at the outset.

If he'd only been a better brother.

To Be Continued…

Author's Note: Please let me know if you're still reading/enjoying the stories in this 'verse!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Dean really hates his wheelchair. Hates what it represents. Hates his dependence and physical limitations. Hates the pitying glances people throw his way before quickly averting their eyes.

Although sometimes his new vantage point does have its high points. Like the unlimited views of women's asses.

His eyes trail along following the progress of a particularly pert backside as it crosses through his field of vision, earning him a smack on the back of the head from Laura. The two of them are headed to the coffee shop down the street from their apartment and her office, both a concerted effort on Dean's part to start getting out of the apartment more and on Laura's part to try to repay the efforts of the brothers Winchester in ridding her office of her brother's ghost.

"Don't ogle," she says, her manner implying this isn't the first male she's had to try to corral.

"Hey. I don't have much left. Ogling's about all I can do."

She throws him an exasperated glance and rolls her eyes, then holds the door open for him as he wheels himself inside.

"Can you order for me?" she asks, the question more of a rhetorical one given the fact that she's already halfway to the restroom. They've been coming here several times a week for the past couple of weeks and by now the baristas could probably place the orders themselves if they had to.

He just gives a nod, thankful that the coffee shop isn't too crowded right now. He's working on going out in public more but it's still much easier when there's someone by his side. Doesn't take away the lingering stares but at least it makes him feel a little less like a freak when he's not alone.

"Oh, hey Dean!" the barista greets him once he's reached the head of the line.

"Hey Carla – how's things?" he asks the young woman who waits on him on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

"You know, living the dream," she says with a shrug and smile. "The usual?"

"Yep. Two."

"The other for Sam or you got a hot date?"

His face reddens a bit at the question, something he's still not used to – he's never been embarrassed about the opposite sex. But things are different now. He's different now.

Not that he and Laura are anything other than friends. But Sam keeps busting his balls about the same damn thing. Thinks that by going out for coffee, there might be something more there. But there's not. Not that he knows about anyway. He's just trying to rejoin the land of the living. And Laura's past, while still somewhat murky, hasn't been screaming that she's looking for anything either.

"It's just me," says Laura, sidling up next to Dean.

"Hey Laura."

Dean catches the slight change on Carla's face, an expression he's seen women wear when they're sizing up another to determine their competition. He stifles a small smile and can't stop the wink his eye gives Carla, a reflex from his bygone lady killer days.

It's her turn to blush as she pushes the coffees over to them and he notes the feeling of relief at knowing that he's still got at least a little something left in the Dean Winchester mojo tank.

Laura picks up their coffees, oblivious to the small display playing out in front of her, and takes them over to an empty table in the corner. She automatically moves a chair over to another table, allowing Dean to wheel himself into the now empty space, before she settles into her own chair across from him and takes a few sips of the liquid magic she's come to appreciate from this place.

Dean, meanwhile, is busy trying to extract a straw from the side pocket of his chair, the squirrely little devil not wanting to become the sacrifice to Dean's coffee this morning. He gives a barely audible low growl as he works to trap the straw against the side of the pocket, slowly working it upwards with his right arm. When it finally emerges, he has to twist himself in order to get the straw clasped between both his stumps, but he does, plopping the adaptive necessity into his coffee with a flourish.

"Oh thank God," he says after he takes a few sips of his own drink. He'd been on the verge of asking Laura for help and while he knows she would have given it without any judgement, the fact that he even has to ask for help with such basic tasks still galls him.

It's such a shift from their upbringing. The self-sufficient, "we don't need any charity" life he and Sam had been accustomed to exchanged for one in which he's reliant upon others for several of his daily needs.

He really hopes his dad can't see him now from wherever it is he's spending eternity.

"You okay?" Laura asks, not failing to notice the rather despondent expression on the face of her table mate.

"Yeah," he says with a sigh that negates the actual words.

"Well that was convincing," she says sarcastically. "Anything I can do?"

Not wanting to let her in on the little party he'd been throwing himself, he roots around in his brain for another possible explanation, stumbling rather conveniently upon Sam's issues. He'd much rather discuss Sam's issues than his own, especially since he's not here to defend himself.

"I'm just worried about Sam is all," he finally says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms in an attempt to keep his nervous gesture from making an appearance.

"Because…" she prompts, settling back in her own chair to listen.

Dean contemplates just how much to tell her. Because he really is concerned about Sam. He can see what keeping everything bottled up inside is doing to his little brother. The jitteriness; the utter exhaustion; the wounded look in his eyes.

And Dean's pretty sure he's the one causing it.

And he's torn. Torn between his loyalty to Sam and his concern for his little brother. They've both been through so much shit in their short lives, shit that no one else could even come close to understanding. And in a way he owes it to Sam to keep a lid on things, to keep his confidences.

But on the other hand, he really needs to figure out a way to get Sam to talk about it. And so far, he's been unsuccessful.

Sometimes he wonders if he'll have to begin to worry about Sam doing Something just like Sam worries about him doing Something.

So he takes a deep breath and tells Laura just enough to bring her up to speed on his concern for Sam, being careful not to open up too many cans of worms that he might regret later on.

"You think he has survivor's guilt?" she asks when he's provided an outline of Sam's symptoms.

"But I survived."

She makes a point of taking in his arm stumps and his wheelchair, nonverbally challenging the truth of his statement. "What really happened?"

Dean again considers how much to divulge to this relative stranger. Granted, one who knows more about their real lives than most other people, but still. Trust isn't something the Winchesters often extend beyond themselves. They've too often had plans go to shit when someone new was taken into the fold. But things are different now. And Dean needs all the help with Sam that he can get.

And so he gives Laura the bare-bones sketch of the Black Dog hunt, what flashes he can remember, anyway. "But I'm pretty sure Sam remembers the whole thing." He chews his lip again, awaiting her response.

"Can't say I'm all that surprised," she finally says, head cocked to the side, a thoughtful expression on her face.

He quirks an eyebrow at her, silently inviting her to explain further, which she does.

"If he saw the entirety of the attack, I might even say he's holding up damn well. I'd think that would be more than enough to put a normal person in the looney bin for life."

Dean gives a snort, then adds, "Sam is far from normal."

Laura gives a small smile, the connection between the two brothers so much a reminder of the one she had with Brian before his death.

"Anything I can do?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "You mean short of locking us in a room together and giving him truth serum?" His face softens and he gives her a sad little smile. "No. But thanks for the offer. He's my brother. I'll figure something out." _Even if it does kill me. Or him._

()()()()()()()()

"So," Sam says, a teasing smile on his face, "coffee with Laura again, huh?"

Dean just rolls his eyes at his brother, regretting his decision to fill Sam in on his day over their dinner.

Sam wags his eyebrows, causing Dean to furrow his own, equal parts exasperation at his brother and concentration on trying to get the slippery piece of ravioli speared onto his fork.

"Was it like a date?" Sam can barely hide the excitement from his voice. He's never been one to show interest in Dean's conquests. Quite the opposite, in fact. But this is different. Dean's different.

Dean looks up at Sam, a confused look on his face. "What?"

Sam follows his brothers internal dialogue as his face flickers over the question. _Holy Crap. Was it a date? No. Was it? No. But was it?_

Dean finally shakes his head, exasperated that Sam's perhaps brought a level of awkwardness to his new friendship.

"Shut up, Bitch."

Sam just smirks, content to see his brother getting out a little more. Dean's never been one to shy away from the public eye. Quite the opposite, in fact. Especially when that eye is connected to someone of the female persuasion. And while he doesn't really think there's anything going on between Laura and his brother, it's rare that he gets to tease Dean about the opposite sex. So he'll take whatever opportunity he can get, especially if it lends itself to "normal" conversation.

Because nothing in their lives is normal anymore. He's made sure of that. And while he still thinks he would have made the same choice if he had it to do over again, it doesn't make him hate himself any less.

TBC…

Author's Note: Thanks so much for your reviews and your kind words of encouragement – I love them all (and you)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: Buckle up – angst fest in 3, 2, 1…

"You almost ready in there?" Sam calls through Dean's bedroom door.

"Yeah," he calls out, tugging the T shirt over his head. "But I could use some help."

Sam peeks around the door, entering fully once he sees the task to which Dean is referring.

The brothers are getting ready to go out to dinner with Laura, yet another "payback" she'd insisted on providing for their services rendered. This one was rather last minute, but when had either of them passed up a free meal? Especially one Sam doesn't have to cook. (And by extension, one Dean doesn't have to eat. Because, seriously, how many different ways are there to burn pasta?)

Dean's sitting on his bed, in the process of trying to get himself into a pair of jeans. The colder weather has necessitated a change from his usual shorts and the return to his familiar jeans has also been helpful in his quest to feel more like a normal human being again.

Not that the jeans he's wriggling himself into would pass for normal. Not with the sewn up ends of the significantly shortened pant legs. But it looks less ridiculous then the first time he'd tried to wear them; there'd been so much empty pant leg that it had looked like a stack of extra material sitting on his lap.

When he'd grumbled about it in the presence of Sam and Laura, she'd mentioned that her Aunt Margie was a whiz with the sewing machine (much better than the baked goods, she'd assured him), and sure enough, before he could say "No, I really couldn't eat another piece of your sugar-free coffee cake" she'd figured out how much of the excess material needed to be cut off and just where to sew up the legs.

He uses his hips to scooch himself into his jeans, arm stumps working to offer resistance by holding onto one side of the waist at a time in an effort to get the pants in place enough so Sam can help him finish.

"Ready?" asks Sam, trying valiantly to hide the pained expression from his face as he watches his brother struggle with yet another previously mindless task.

Dean nods, reclining back on his elbows and working his leg stumps fully into their pant legs while Sam adjusts the waist in order to button and zip his jeans.

"Need anything else?" asks Sam, careful to keep his voice neutral.

"Nah, I think I'm good," says Dean, working his way over to the edge of his bed to his awaiting chariot. Another good thing Dean's noticed about having his pant legs sewn shut (besides avoiding the cold gusts of air that wreak havoc with the sensitive skin of his stumps) – a significant cut down on the amount of wedgies in his life.

He briefly considers adding another layer to his top half, then quickly discards the idea as he recalls past failures into the foray of long-sleeved shirts. He can't just have Mrs. Walters sew the ends of the sleeves shut like she did the pant legs; he needs his arm stumps for mobility (both wheelchair and transfers) as well as the sensory feedback they supply. Without the aid of fingers or hands, the sensitive skin on the ends of his stumps have become a necessity in order to feel his environment.

Plus, the fact that they'll be eating (especially in public) makes it very impractical. The roll of the cuffed sleeves would be right where he needs to place the adaptive cuff in order to feed himself. And in the war between food and fashion, food wins every time.

Not to mention the fact that when he's added a flannel over top of his T shirt and had Sam roll up the sleeves for him, it just looks plain ridiculous. He can never seem to get it rolled properly and the edges of the T shirt always end up poking out from underneath the rolled cuff.

And Dean would really like to keep the ridiculous to a dull roar. His body takes care of enough of that for him already. He doesn't need any extra help.

()()()()()()()()

"So there we were," says Laura, "trapped in the room with Aunt Margie and Uncle Phil, trying to figure out if we wanted to gouge our eyes out or shout 'surprise!'" She wipes a tear of laughter from her eye, letting out a last chuckle as she finishes her story about the time she and her brother got trapped in their aunt and uncle's bedroom while snooping. Brother and sister had definitely gotten the raw end of the deal when the outwardly staid couple showed their wild side, complete with strip tease and lacy undergarments worn by both parties.

Dean doesn't think he'll ever see Mrs. Walters (or her desserts) the same way and Sam vows not to look too closely around her apartment the next time she asks him to water her plants when she's away.

By the time their dinner plates have been wiped clean, the brothers have each downed several beers apiece and there's a general joviality in the air that hadn't been present at the start of the meal.

In fact, each Winchester is thinking this is the most relaxed he's seen the other in quite some time.

"Hey," Laura asks innocently as they're making their way back out to her car, "can I ask you guys a favor?"

"Ask away," says Dean while Sam replies with a "Of course".

"You'd really be saving me," she says, a sheepish look on her face. "I have this building I'm working on and I could really use another set of eyes. Or two."

The brothers nod, eager to help following one of the more satisfying meals they've had in quite some time. Dean had always been much more culinarily inclined than Sam and the most Dean can manage now is bossing his brother around while Sam figures out new ways to mess up macaroni and cheese.

Laura can't quite keep the smile from creeping over her face. Not only at the plan she's set in motion but at the way each brother, in his relaxed buzzed state of mind, is going almost overboard extolling the virtues of the other. By the time they arrive at their destination, she's learned that Dean has made many of his own EMF meters over the years and Sam is quite possibly a computer hacking genius.

She leads the brothers into the building in question, buzzing herself in and greeting the security guard at the front desk by name before heading into the elevator at the end of the empty hallway. The building is quiet with the exception of the three of them and the laugh track emanating from the small TV screen keeping the guard occupied, the rest of the building's occupants presumably at home with their families or enjoying the nightlife.

She presses the button for the sixth floor, making idle chitchat as the elevator glides smoothly to their destination.

"Oh, shoot!" she says when the door opens onto the sixth floor. She throws another sheepish glance at the boys and rolls her eyes. "Silly me, having a bottle blonde moment," she explains, pointing to her spiky bleached hair. "I meant to hit the fifth floor."

She hits the button for the fifth floor, quickly stepping out of the elevator as the door begins to close.

Sam makes a move to keep it open for her but she calls back quickly, "I'll meet you down there. Need to work off some of my dinner anyway. I'll take the stairs."

The boys just shrug at each other, too relaxed to be suspicious.

Until the descending elevator jerks to a sudden stop, the alarm bell giving a brief ring as Dean and Sam share an unspoken "What the hell".

"Ok boys," Laura's voice floats down towards them, "get to it".

"Ummmm," draws out Sam, trying in vain to get the elevator working again by playing with the buttons.

"Talk!" she directs them.

"Oh, Son of a Bitch!" Dean exclaims as the situation becomes clearer to him. "Damsel in distress," he mutters to himself. "Should have known. There's not a drop of Damsel anywhere in her."

"What?" asks Sam, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to make sense both of his brother's ramblings and their current situation.

"You know this isn't what I meant!" Dean yells.

"Tough!" comes Laura's the faint reply.

"You do remember that your brother's spirit tried to send me down an elevator shaft, right?" he calls back at her.

"Yep."

"You don't think this might be a little bit traumatic for me?"

"I think you can handle it!"

"Dammit," he mumbles under his breath, "she's an evil genius."

"Uh, Dean?" Sam asks his brother, eyes flicking back and forth from Dean to the top of the elevator where Laura's voice has been focused. "Care to fill me in here?"

Dean slides his right arm behind his head, using the end of his residual limb to rub his hair in consternation before deciding just how to explain their current predicament to his brother.

"So I may or may not have mentioned the fact that I was worried about you but that I was having trouble getting you to talk about it and that short of locking us in a room together I couldn't think of how to get you to talk to me," Dean says, taking a gigantic breath at the end of his run-on sentence.

Sam's Bitch Face emerges, eyes rolling in exasperation at his brother. "I'm fine Dean," he assures his brother yet again. Then calls out louder to Laura, "I'm fine!"

Dean lets his arms drop to his sides, thumping the arm of his wheelchair with his right stump in his own show of frustration. "But that's just it, Sammy! You're not! You're not fine!"

Sam paces the confined area, studiously avoiding Dean's laser-like gaze while trying to figure out if he can somehow work the door off the top of the elevator and climb up the shaft. He thinks he could, especially if he had the old Dean to give him a boost. But he's not sure his brother's chair is up to the task.

"Come on, man," Dean says softly, "talk to me."

He pauses a few beats, sees Sam's resolve ebbing by the way he's turned his gaze from the ceiling to his shoes, then continues.

"I know you've been having nightmares. And I can guess what they're about," he says, glancing down at his mutilated body. "And I also know you've gotta talk about it because it's eating you up."

Sam slides down the side of the shiny wall of the elevator, burying his head in the hands he's got propped up on his bent knees. He takes a couple of deep breaths before finally leaning his head back against the wall, his face registering equal parts resignation and despair as he levels a gaze at his brother.

Dean maneuvers his chair into the corner, then quickly clambers out and makes his way to the opposite side, bringing himself down onto Sam's level while getting the chair out of Sam's line of sight. He figures maybe that'll help – just two brothers talking. About rather macabre subjects, sure; but still.

"Are the nightmares about me?" Dean asks, eyebrows furrowed in concern. At Sam's nod he presses further. "About that day?"

Sam closes his eyes, gnawing on his lower lip in an effort to keep his emotions in check and takes a deep breath before focusing back on his brother. "Yeah," he admits, the weight of the world evident in that admission.

"Tell me about it," Dean says, catching the widening of Sam's eyes as he contemplates what Dean's asking him. "I mean it. Tell me what you saw."

"No, Dean. I can't. I've already done enough. It's better that you don't know."

"Sam…" Dean growls out, the threatening tone working to get Sam's brain cells to reconsider his long-held belief that he was sparing his brother by keeping the events of that day to himself.

And with one final heaving breath he agrees to relinquish his control over the events, giving Dean insight into what really happened.

"I'm so sorry I did this to you," Sam says, dropping his head into his hands in abject despair as he finishes reliving the events of the day that changed their lives.

"Sam," Dean says, barking his brother's name just enough to get him to look up. "You did what you had to do. You did not do this to me," he says, holding up his arm stumps and raising his eyebrows for emphasis. "Got it?"

Sam slowly rolls his head back and forth against the wall of the elevator in a visible denial of Dean's reassuring words. "It's all my fault." He visibly swallows, trying to get the words past the lump of emotions clogging his throat. "I shouldn't have let us split up. I should've been a better hunter. I should've been smarter," he says, working himself up to near-hyperventilation levels as each layer of guilt reveals itself.

"I shouldn't have been so selfish." His last statement comes out more like a whisper and the accompanying wetness on his eyelashes is not lost on Dean.

"Sam," Dean says, his tone approximating the commanding tone used on many a past hunt to capture his little brother's attention. When he's sure Sam's listening, he continues. "You saved my life."

"Only because you saved mine first," Sam replies, tone flat and emotionless. "And look where that got you."

"And you know if I had to do it over again, I would," says Dean, scooting closer to Sam so they can sit side by side. "I was so scared when I saw that thing going after you. Didn't know what I would do if it got to you before I could get there."

Dean clears his throat, trying to free his own reluctant emotions.

"Sammy," he says softly, "it was my decision to split up. My decision to jump in front of the Black Dog. My decision to save you."

"Yeah," says Sam, holding his brother's eyes in the reflection of the elevator wall as he makes his counter argument, "and it was my decision to put the tourniquets on. To call for Castiel for help. To leave you like this."

When Dean fails to respond quickly enough, Sam adds, "That day in the hospital when you asked me why I didn't just let you go? That haunts me," he says, his voice breaking. "Because maybe I should have. Look what I've done to you."

Sam drops his head onto his knees, throwing his arms over his head in an effort to curl into himself. The shaking of his shoulders is not lost on Dean, nor is the soft keening sound emanating from the youngest Winchester.

Dean feels the prickle of liquid working at the corners of his own eyes and he hastily scrubs them away, lest he add any fuel to Sam's already rather watery fire. A fire which has been threatening to rage for quite some time and a fire which Dean is glad has finally come to flame.

And so he lets Sam cry for a few minutes, throwing his residual limb across his brother's back as far as it will reach and rubbing it reassuringly.

"You done?" Dean asks when Sam's head finally makes an appearance again, eyes red-rimmed and puffy but face otherwise lacking the strain that's been increasingly evident.

Sam gives a nod, then heaves out a sigh in an effort to fully purge himself of any remaining self-loathing.

"Good," says Dean. "I don't think I can handle much more of your Emo bullshit."

Sam rolls his eyes and huffs out a laugh, grateful at times like these that his brother's snark is still intact, even if the rest of him isn't.

"Listen to me," Dean says seriously, absently rubbing his arms stumps together. "And I need you to really hear it this time. You didn't do this to me. The Black Dog did this. End of story. You saved me."

Sam opens his mouth and Dean holds out his arm and shakes his head to keep him quiet.

"And I'm still me. Sure, there might be less of me, but it's still me. Still your pain in the ass big brother. Don't you forget that.

"Like you'd ever let me forget that," mumbles Sam, a reluctant smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

"And I need you, man," Dean says, his tone relaying the trueness of the words. "You can't fall apart on me. I'll never make it."

Dean eyeballs his brother, takes in the lack of strain on his face and the lighter set to his shoulders and thinks maybe, just maybe, they'll be okay.

A sentiment that gains a little bit more traction when Sam swallows him in a hug, his gigantor body giving a quick squeeze before Dean can even think to eke out a protest. And before he can stop it, Dean's returned the display of emotion, readily giving his brother the Chick Flick moment he so craves in order for Sam to absolve himself of his guilty conscience.

Because he's an awesome big brother. Always will be. And he won't let Sam forget it.

()()()()()()()()

"Oh thank God," Sam mumbles when the elevator doors finally open on the fifth floor, Laura having determined their issues to be adequately aired out. "Where's the bathroom?" he asks Laura, eyes quickly scanning the hallway. "I've had to pee like a racehorse for the last half hour."

She points him in the direction of the nearest facility, giving him a slightly chagrined look in the process.

"You," Dean says, drawing Laura's attention back to him as he maneuvers around her in an effort to follow Sam, the beers she'd plied them with begging to make a hasty exit from his body as well, "are a heartless Bitch."

He turns slightly and gives the corner of his mouth an upward tilt as he pushes on past her. "Thanks."

A/N: Phew! I think I might need some lighter fare for a while after that. Hope it lived up to expectations!


End file.
